Ralph
by minusclea
Summary: Ralph wakes up only to find himself in his worst nightmare.


His head hurt. A dull, thumping pain that left no room for a coherent thought to form. It was as though a white light shot behind his eyes with every breath he took. He wanted to open his eyes, then he realised they were already open. And he was standing, although he could not remember standing up or even waking up. It was as though the mere thought had caused his surroundings to appear.

He was at the local train station: Dirty, stinking, shabby, yet familiar. It was oddly comforting. He knew this place. He had been here often enough. He recognised every broken and shattered tile, the dirty corners and the empty beer cans lining the trashcans. Countless, faceless people were walking by, as always. They didn't matter. It took him a moment to realise that he was one of them. No one noticed him and no one seemed to look his way. Many people bumped into him, making him stumble, while they kept their pace, kept walking without even a sideways glance at him.

He saw a familiar looking figure ahead, with long, soft hair, through which he had combed his fingers more times than he cared to count. She was holding a crying toddler on her arm while balancing her phone between cheek and shoulder and rummaging through her handbag. He had always told her these bags were too large, too bulky. He had told her time and time again, and she had ignored him. He started to walk towards his wife and his 1-year-old daughter, smaller and cuter than she had ever been. He could see the bump that would soon be his son already showing under his wife's light floral dress which accented her curvy body in all the right places, hugging her breasts in a way that seemed to highlight her cleavage.

He could make out the words of her conversation now; she seemed irritated. "… Look, we're already late and if we miss the next train we won't make it in time. You know my parents; they want the entire family there. Ralph, are you even listening to me? Ralph? Where are you, for…? Where are you?"

"I'm right here!"

She turned around to face him. Her long hair fell over her shoulder; her cream coloured skin glistened in the sunlight streaming through the broken windows of the station. She was breathing fast, her chest rising and falling, and he could barely tear his eyes away from it. His hands began to feel cold. She pressed the phone against her silky shoulder in said in a somewhat disinterested tone "Who are you?"

He ran. He could not remember starting to run, but now that he was, he could not stop. He went faster and faster, through the station, empty streets, a nightlife scene, voices calling after him, trying to take a hold of him.

Suddenly his arm was yanked around. He came face to face with several men he recognised faintly as old college mates. The tallest of them, Phil or Paul, offered him a drink. "Here, to good ol' times". Ralph stared at the offered cup. It was filled with something vile-looking. He felt sick.

"Well, drink up!" Out of breath, he shook his head, the disgusting smell making it hard to breathe; to think. His headache worsened. His breathing became shallow. The faces fell. "What's up with you man?", asked the one on the right. He spotted a fashionable stubble and flicked his slightly too long hair out of his face with an elegant motion. Phil nodded, "Yeah, I hardly recognise you, Jackson."

He was walking through a dark, deserted street with closed shops. The wind was howling and it was starting to rain. Broken glass was lying around on the ground and he could hear bustling sounds and muffled voices from the apartments above the empty shops.

He felt a movement to his left. When he turned around he saw a white mannequin staring at him through a dark window. The only source of light was a street lantern several feet away. Something about the mannequin seemed off. It wasn't as still as it should shook his head, and his heart missed a beat. His breathing became ragged, his heart thumping in his chest and his head hurting so badly he had to close his eyes. When he opened them again the mannequin was staring right at him. It took him another minute to fully realise what he saw: His reflection. His hand slowly moved to touch his face.

He started the scratch the smooth white material, slowly at first, but it didn't take long before he messily and aggressively clawed at it, trying to get it off. Trying to get beneath the surface. No matter how hard he pulled, scraped or tore, it wouldn't peel away. His head felt as though it was trapped, a clamp fastened around it, slowly closing. The pain was consuming him, he could not think. He didn't know where he was, why he was here or even who he was. He wanted to run, flee from the agonising pain, escape this torture. But he could not move, he could not move his feet. He was stuck. His eyes flew open in shock. He faced the shop window once more; the last thing he saw was the obscenely grotesque and distorted, white face.

He vomited as soon as he woke up. He knew he had been dreaming, but he could not remember. His headache was bad, hangover bad. He realised he probably had one. People were looking at him as he made his way home. His mouth still tasted like vomit. He was counting his steps, as though that made the distance shorter. He did not know what to do. He had no idea, no one ever told him. He kept his eyes fixed in one place and saw them, dozens of them, wheeling and darting just under the overcast, seabirds, birds that came in off the ocean this time of morning.


End file.
